


my whole world is you

by jeanheir



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Japanese Mythology & Folklore, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:40:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22741129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeanheir/pseuds/jeanheir
Summary: Nights in the woods are ordinary, but Yuta is anything but that.
Relationships: Mark Lee/Nakamoto Yuta
Comments: 7
Kudos: 74
Collections: NCT Rarepair Winter Bingo





	my whole world is you

**Author's Note:**

> hello hello hello, this fic took way too long to write and edit but she's here! i've done it! take my sacrifice, yumark nation
> 
> special thanks to rein for betaing for me (love ya) and to emmett who read over this last minute! <3
> 
> [this was written for the NCT Rarepair Winter Bingo, with the bingo tile being blizzard]
> 
> the lovely @/natodso made an adorable piece of  
> [fanart](https://twitter.com/natodso/status/1249825839514030081?s=09)  
> for this fic, so please show them some love!

It’s cold. Almost unbearably so. Winters in the woods are especially cold too, the sun barely shining through the thick leaves that barricade the sky from the ground. The townspeople like saying that it’s spirits, angry with the town’s ancestors so they curse them with frost spells and lengthy storms. Mark doesn’t know if he believes them or not, having spent a majority of his life in the woods and never seeing a trace of magic anywhere. 

The icicles forming on the window of his cabin gleam prettily in the dark, full moon giving them their shine. 

The townspeople had ordered a search party recently — a young child had supposedly been whisked away in the early morning, not so much as a peep to alert his family. Changelings, they say, the result of a faerie and human trade — even if the other party was unaware. The young couple had awoken to see their toddler staring at the wall eerily, skin pale and pulse virtually non-existent. 

He doesn’t know if he believes that story either, but then again, he’s never in the village to see any of these mishaps anyway. The villagers had almost torn apart his door earlier, pitchforks and candles in hand, faces weary. They hadn’t outrightly said it, but he remained their prime suspect. Living alone had brought him quite the reputation, that he was some sort of banished warlock, or some sort of faerie himself. 

Neither were true of course. He was merely a person who enjoyed the solitude and quiet that the forest held, appreciative of the scenery it brought with it. Besides, he hasn’t set foot in the village in weeks, and the infant had been missing 3 days prior. If they looked at the facts, they’d realise that their suspicions were unwarranted for. 

Eventually, after their searches had been proven fruitless, the incessant chatter of the villagers faded into the night, farmers and merchants returning to their homes after strong winds began to pick up, the first signs of an upcoming blizzard. As he watches them leave, he snorts. If he really were the child thief the villagers believed he was, Mark wouldn’t be nearly daft enough to stay anywhere near the town. 

He wraps his cloak tighter around his shoulders and embraces the warmth his miniature fireplace gives. Nothing but the sound of wind howling outside and the crackle of the embers to give him company. It’s peaceful like this and will be for a while before some poor traveller rattles on his door, begging to be let inside to shelter from the storm raging outside. Mark will let them in, always has and listens to their stories as payment for their stay. Most of the time, they comply, and even with the ones that don’t, he doesn’t hold any grudges. He wouldn’t fancy talking if he were on the verge of frostbite either, most likely fixated on regaining warmth than humouring the chance of a conversation. 

This time, it’s a man with silver hair. As he waits at the door, he doesn’t look at all perturbed by the harsh winds and unforgiving snow at all. Mark can make out, almost imagines, the slight tremors from his pale hands before he welcomes him in, leading him to the couch before brewing him a cup of tea and passing him a grey shawl. The man’s gaze never leaves him, sending a crawl of unease up his back. He’s no stranger to lingering glances, guests wanting to know what kind of person their host is, but this feels different. Like he’s being watched by a hawk — which is an incredulous thought because the stranger before him is clearly human. At least, he seemed to be. 

“You should be more careful, you know,” The stranger says, accepting the cup with a quiet thank you. His voice carries a teasing lilt to it, surprising Mark into silence. “There are many dangers within these woods.”

Taeyong, his older brother and the mayor of the aforementioned town would agree, but Mark’s obsessed with the tales of the travellers who visit him, addicted to their stories like a drug. If something were to happen to him, deep inside the woods, there’s no doubt that he’d be alone to fend for himself, but Mark does his best not to think about that. It hasn’t happened yet, and hopefully, it never will.

“I believe that I can take care of myself,” Mark says stiffly, never taking his eyes off his guest. He doesn’t think the man lounging on his couch is particularly threatening, but then again you can never really know who’s safe and who’s not, especially in these parts. The usual hitchhikers were couples and siblings, young and bright faced, practically brimming with energy. Innocent, even. Now that he’s brought the topic to attention, staring at it face on, Mark feels somewhat on edge. He’s been abnormally lucky so far, and he hopes that what’s left of his good fortune is still there.

Yuta, the guest, leaves soon after telling Mark of his journey. He’d been moving here and there for a few days, just observing the serene scenery around the mountains. He says that the animals in the woods are like nothing he’s ever seen before, not at all like the creatures where he’s from. He talks about them with an admirable look in his eyes, as if he can’t quite believe that what he’s talking about is true. The snowy rabbits and proud robins that flock around the forest seem hardly exciting to Mark, but he smiles interestedly all the same. There was something about the man before him that simply pulled him in, sucking him deep into a void of utter fascination. 

Yuta never says where he comes from, and Mark never asks. What they have now is simply enough for him.

He roams the plains of Mark’s mind for the rest of the night, dreaming of hazel eyes and tranquil laughs. 

Tomorrow, after the storms have calmed and the birds are chirping, Taeyong comes down from the town with good news, the hoods of his eyes dark from lack of sleep. The child had been returned to his home later that night, with a soft knock on the door and his peaceful snores interrupting the quiet night. The parents hadn’t a clue how he’d returned, but eventually pushed the whole thing to the back of their minds. Busying themselves with consoling their son, who’s memories had been wiped clean of the whole ordeal. The changeling had disappeared from the household too, without so much as a trace. The whole occurrence was alarming to Mark, who nodded politely at Taeyong’s glee. He wouldn’t pile more stress on him. He didn’t need it. 

His older brother had deemed it as a miracle, stress lines relaxing on his pale forehead. With his visit, he also pleads for Mark to come back to the village, to the warmth of the mayor’s house and his servants, but as usual, Mark apologetically declines. It’s not the first time, and would most certainly not be the last. 

Despite his brother’s worries, he doesn’t wish to return to the village just yet, the urge to remain even stronger than before now that he’s met Yuta. He’d asked his brother and friends if they’d seen him around the town, but to his disappointment they hadn’t witnessed a thing. Some of them were disbelieving of his new friend too, as dyeing hair was a privilege mainly reserved for the nobles, as odd as the rule was. Those of higher status generally kept to themselves, which meant the chance of someone as distant as Mark stumbling across one was almost absurd. He understands their doubts, but what other explanation could there be for his silver strands?

Besides, he’d feel bad for Doyoung if he intruded on them again, even if Taeyong’s fiancé assured him that it an extra person living together wouldn’t be a hassle. Anyhow, third-wheeling was not on his list of things to do, even if the two older men were painstakingly cute in their affairs. 

Taeyong leaves reluctantly, promising that he’d be back soon, boots crunching marks in the settled snow around Mark’s cottage. When his form is no longer visible, concealed within the trees and leaves of the forest, the younger man fastens the lock on his door and retreats to the kitchen, running the hot water tap and rinsing his dishes, layering them in soap. 

Washing up calms him down, and he needs to be in a sober state if there are any more visitors at the door. 

He doesn’t want his brother to worry, but a selfish part of him craves the isolation and peace his little house gives him. The town carries too much chatter, children running around excitedly, merchants and tradesmen beckoning at whoever stared at their stall long enough closer. The little oak cottage gives him time to think. Of what? You may be asking, what could someone with a life as placid as Mark be worrying over? 

The chance was low, a flying thought, but, a shred of him believed that Yuta and the changeling were related, somehow. They’d appeared around the same time, and had disappeared about the same time too. He doesn’t want to believe that Yuta is one of the faeries, one of the child-snatching creatures who’d supposedly terrorised his village for aeons, but it was still a possibility. And an unsettling one at that. He sighs as he dries the last dish, returning the flannel to its hook and shuffling back into his living room. He can fantasise all the theories he wants for later, but for now, another stranger awaits at the door, insistent knocks joining the crackle of his fireplace. 

Naturally, the world goes on, and he doesn’t see the silver-haired man for days on end. Embarrassingly enough, he’s spent those days cooped up in bed with a piece of parchment leaned against a book, writing bits of poetry inspired by his visits. It’s a fun pastime but not one that he’d announce to the world. His writings are personal, especially the ones that leave him flushing. Mark’s days go on like this for a while, until the weather begins to pick up again, like an avalanche on the verge of erupting. 

He hasn’t had any visitors since either, villagers opting to stay with their children after last week’s incident. Strangely enough, every traveller passing by his shack acted as if it were invisible. He had brushed it off the first few times it had happened, leaving the safety of his bed when the amount of passerbyers became too much to count. Mark couldn’t understand the diversion, eyes straining to see any presence that could be causing such a weird situation. The last people to cross his shack had been some teenagers, covered from head to toe in leather coats and cotton scarves. They appear cosy, though their red faces and heavy steps contrasted that idea deeply.

The group had been bickering for nearly five minutes now, their voices raising in volume the more heated they got. A girl, about sixteen, was complaining about how far their next rest stop was, the stocky boy next to her frowning and telling her to lower her voice with an irritated edge to it. She doesn’t take his comment kindly and promptly kicks him in the shin before skulking off with an even madder expression. Her friends, two other girls, dart after her with their middle fingers held high at the remaining group, three boys with outraged scowls. 

Mark notices how the boys slowly take off afterwards, no doubtably cursing their late companions. They’re irrational, Mark thinks, watching their boots thud against the ground unrelentlessly, but they’re all each other’s got, despite the unrelenting anger they show. He had close friends too once, but they’d moved to the next town over with their families months ago, tired of the brittle cold and merciless weather that seemed to haunt the village. They spoke as much as they could, though messengers often lost themselves in the maze-like woods when trying to deliver their letters of goodwill, eventually naming it an impossible route to travel through. Those native to the winter lands were the few that could stand the cold, whereas postmen were from the warmer climates, unprepared for the windy storms ahead. He misses Donghyuck, Jaemin and Jungwoo dearly, but the forests have so much to offer him, the travellers so much to give, he isn’t ready to leave just yet.

The jeers of the teen boys echo throughout the trees, loud and obnoxious, but Mark can tell that it’s just a front. Truly they’re scared of being left alone in the woods by themselves, the fear slowly creeping up on them the longer they stayed out. He pities them, but there’s little he can do when they’re unable to see him, and when his door is barricaded shut with thick snow. It seems as though they’ve caught up with each other when a howl echoes from deeper within the woods, causing the youths to bolt down what’s left of the gravel path, faces paler than before. Mark’s never heard such a sound, not in all his time living in the forest. It’s nothing like the mountain wolves or the black bears he’s used to, not in the slightest. 

Mark looks out of his speckled window, craning his neck to see where the noise could possibly be coming from. When another howl follows soon after, a more dangerous bite to it, Mark pulls his head back and slams his shutters closed, heart hammering in his chest painfully. The lantern on his window sill shakes from the impact but he barely registers it, blood rushing to his ears deafeningly. 

The animal cry sends a shock of danger over him and he rushes upstairs to his bedroom, almost slipping over the smooth planks in his haste. Mark isn’t an easily scared person, but even he doubts that that was normal. He’s scared out of his mind, and — for the first time in months — he feels unsafe in the woods he proudly calls his home.

Blood red eyes watch him from afar, grey fur rippling in waves from the wind. When Mark finally blows out all his candles, retiring for the night with his body shaking, the fox-like creature slinks back into the night, returning to the shadows silently. If it were physically capable, the hound would be wearing a look of acidity.

Mark doesn’t sleep well that night.

Once again, it’s snowing harshly outside, as it always does whenever Yuta comes over. This time he brings company with him, a skittish kid named Jisung who had the habit of flinching whenever Mark so much as looked in his direction. He felt bad for the boy, but didn’t want to alarm him anymore than he had already, so he waited until Jisung excused himself to the bathroom to ask Yuta about him. 

“He’s had some bad experiences with hu-,” he catches himself, “-with people, especially around these parts. Don’t worry though, he’ll warm up to you eventually. He always does.”

Mark can’t think of a person from the village who would purposely harm a boy as young as Jisung appeared, but he keeps the suspicious thoughts to himself. Bottling things up inside is a second habit to him, he only hopes that it won’t become his wrongdoing. Once the jumpy boy returns, they drop the topic and continue to talk about Yuta’s travels in the mountains of autumn lands and the mystical creatures he had the blessing of meeting on his way. Absorbed with the stories of finfolk and faerie dogs, he’s unaware of Jisung slowly relaxing on the soft couch beside him, finally at ease.

The winds don’t appear to be weakening any time soon, so he offers for the two shelter until it clears, but Yuta declines with a smile, reassuring him that they were more than used to the violent weather’s conditions. The tug of disappointment in his chest goes ignored. Jisung sneaks him a shy glance, mumbling a small word of thanks before leaving back to the wild, disappearing into the cold winter afternoon.

Yuta helps him stack away the porcelain teacups, paying Mark’s flustered comments no attention. Usually while he would clear away his homewear, the guests would watch the weather outside with no further instruction. It’s a nice change, and Mark finds himself thinking that having a helping hand around here and there would be useful. With Yuta, even more so. 

With a caress of his head that leaves Mark’s cheeks burning, Yuta bids his farewell with a soft smile, promising to return as soon as he could. His wooden door closes with a small click and he rushes to the nearest window, watches as Yuta’s silhouette joins the smaller one, waving shyly. His heart throbs in his chest wildly, but it’s a different kind of feeling compared to last night’s, not one caused by pure fear, but a warmer one that had his face aching from smiling too much.

Mark hopes his return is sooner rather than later, selfishly craving the tender touch that made his mind run haywire. 

The next traveller to knock upon his oak door is an elderly woman with thin greying hair and sharp, gnarly nails that rest upon his armrest menacingly, ready to claw him at a moment’s notice. She reminds him of a cat, glaring at him threateningly. Mark doesn’t like cats. 

He tries to remain as hospitable as possible when interacting with his guests, but the woman before him makes him want to run far, far away from his own home, her very presence making his hair stand on end. She hooks the cup handle with a spindly finger and hovers the rim of it over her dry lips, cracked from cold.

He uneasily smiles at her, trying his hardest to shield his discomfort as he tames the crackles of his fireplace, throwing small logs of wood into the embers as it begins to weaken. 

When she finally takes a sip, misty green eyes narrowed scrutinising glare, she settles his teacup down silently, the remaining liquid left untouched. Any more force used and she would’ve spilled the drink on his coffee table. 

Mark barely has the time to ask her if it tasted off before she yanks a strand of her hair from her scalp inhumanly fast. The more she rubs it between her wrinkled hands, the sharper it appears, glinting in the fire’s light menacingly. Without a second to lose, she lunges forward and stabs the cushion beside Mark, barely missing him by a centimetre. Without thinking, he frantically looks around the room for anything to defend himself with, the bronze candle-holder sitting on the mantelpiece, or the broom he’d lazily propped against the nearest wall. Both seem like good options, but he doubts his attacker will give him time to reach for either. 

She’s ripped out another hair, beginning to thrum it with her fingers when a low, guttural growl interrupts the room, the snarl leaving the aged woman motionless for half a second before she whips her head around and recoils at the sight of the creature by the door, expression twisted into one of pure distaste. 

The snarl is too similar to the one that he had heard weeks ago to be a coincidence, and the fox-like animal glaring his way too human to be considered normal. Mark wondered when he would wake up, the dream-like situation far too bizarre to be considered anything different. 

The events that followed were perfect to that, so much so that he wouldn’t have believed it had he not been there to witness the whole thing with his own two eyes. 

The hound bares its teeth, nearing the two inch by inch. Mark can hardly breathe, too panicked to focus on anything other than the creature before him. The old woman ignores him in favour of staring it down, almost appearing apprehensive if it weren’t for the fact that her form was as strong as ever. “Yuta,” she snarls, “You’re always one step behind, aren’t you.” It’s a statement not a question, one that leaves Mark’s brain grasping at straws. What was she talking about? 

The hound flinches at the name, and it’s only now that Mark sees the resemblance — the trademark silver, the unusual aura that surrounded the two like a heavy fog. If he weren’t so terrified he might have even let out a gasp of horror. 

At the hound’s, no, Yuta’s silence, her scowl deepens even more, the thread she was twisting becoming more haggard as her emotions flared. “No words, Master Seer? You’ve come such a long way to interfere with my errands, so much so that I took the time to do some research of my own,” She glances Mark’s way, “-and to think that the object of your interests is a lowly human.” 

The atmosphere, if possible, turns colder. The unsteady fire becoming nothing more than a silent picture in the background, its warmth firmly put out. His breath escapes in foggy drafts, the cottage freezing. 

“Yeri.” 

The tone is lukewarm, bordering warning territory. Yuta stands before them, the wolf before them no longer in sight, his figure imposing. His eyes are narrowed, distaste clear. “You have no reason to busy yourself with my personal affairs, let alone the time. The gateway to Daemonium is hours away from closing! Shouldn’t you be with your kin, trying to salvage what left your tribe has left of glory?”

Her cracked lips upturn into a steely smile, expression hard. “I just wanted to see you one last time, dear seer. A friendly goodbye, if you will.” 

The atmosphere remains tense. 

“And yet again, your constant determination wears me thin. The times have changed, we are no longer on the same side. If it weren’t for this lowly human here, I would have eradicated your spirit away from this realm immediately,”

He raises his hand towards Yeri, “I’m sorry for bringing you trouble Mark,” his expression softens as he runs his eyes over the frozen boy, face awestruck. “I hope I can make it up to you.” 

A silver mist clouds over the sorceress, impassive composure transforming into one of complete horror as she takes in the fog around her. Within seconds, what was left of the wrinkled woman is thin air, nothing more than a shriek of agony to signify her presence. 

The warmth of the cottage creeps up on the two, like the shy tip-toes of a child. Mark feels heat rush to his face in an instant, and he fights the unbearable urge to black out. Sheepishly, Yuta approaches him, “If you would allow me to explain, I hope I can clear this up to you.” 

He doesn’t know what compels him to agree to the other’s request, but soon enough Mark finds himself seated opposite the silver-haired man, just like the first they had met. Only this time, instead of entertained glances and first impressions it’s awkward and apprehensive, though Mark supposes that he never truly knew Yuta anyway, the concept of shifting forms never arising in any of their past conversations. 

He shifts in his chair, trying to find a comfortable position in his armchair (Yuta had insisted that they sit), thoughts running wild. He ignores the anxiety swallowing him whole, “Go ahead,” Mark croaks. He sounds exactly how he feels — sick and tired. 

Apparently Yuta, as well as Jisung, came from a long line of kitsune, the fox spirits of many myths and tales. The older man had been staking out the woods for a while now, having heard rumours of the Wicked Witch of the North, more commonly known as Kim Yeri, from the neighbouring village. It appeared that their clans had had a long, violent history together, one that could only be stopped by sealing of the entrance to the Daemonium, a crack in space that led to the dangerous realm of Elymagus, the witch’s homeworld. He described it all with loaving, one that only disappeared when his eyes met Mark’s perplexed ones. 

Mark finds himself in a daze. The concept of otherworldly beings had always been nothing more than a faraway dream to him, despite the villages constant belief in supernatural endeavours that had been happening for aeons. One measly afternoon had verified everything he had thought was unreal, it was absurd. 

“Truth be told,” The shifter continues, “The reason why your visitor count had dwindled was because I had cast a protection spell over the cottage — I didn’t want you to get hurt if a wizard had found out about my fondness, they’re petty people.” 

He wills the heat warming in his cheeks to calm down, Yuta’s eyes meeting his own, expression soft.

“I really like you Mark, and though we may not have known each other for that long, I’m sure of it. You’re really something else.”

Mark doubts that he’s anything spectacular — in all honesty he’s quite boring really, but with the way Yuta is staring at him, skin flushed from embarrassment and face hopeful, he can’t find it in his heart to disagree. He swallows the fear in his throat, begging him not to speak, and finally lets his long overdue feelings out. 

“I … I like you too, and we can always make up for lost time,” He says, Yuta’s smile transforming into a brighter, more confident one. It feels good to let his bottled up, almost shameful emotions loose, and he can hardly question why he had never confessed sooner because he’s in Yuta’s arms, the older man trapping him a protective hug. 

“I promise that I’ll never put you in any more danger, thank you.”

It’s been five days since Yuta had announced his feelings for Mark, and in the days that passed, he never left his cottage once. The newfound company had been a nice and much needed change, breakfasts and lunches more enjoyable now that Mark had another person to talk too. It was as if Yuta had been faking his cool persona the whole time, warm smiles and teasing remarks more frequent than ever. It was nice, so nice that Mark had forgotten about all his other responsibilities — including telling Taeyong of his blooming relationship as any younger brother should. It’s not his fault that Yuta is an expert at commanding his full attention, making sure that he's the only thing Mark sees, not at all. There may be some sort of magic too it, some spell, but Mark doesn’t think about that, only focusing on the gentle hands that run through his hair and the soft singing that fills the front room. 

He doesn’t hear the door, nor the frustrated grumbling that sounds from the other side either. 

“Mark! Are you in there?!” Calls Taeyong, causing the younger to flinch at the suddenness. “Doyoung and I accidentally made too much food last night and I can’t waste it.”

Instinctively he rolls his eyes, Yuta chuckling in amusement at the action. This was another one of his older brother’s schemes to get him to return to the village; getting Mark so hung up on the dishes the two made so that he’d have no choice but to move in with them, where the delicacies lay. It had almost happened once, when Doyoung had crafted his famed cranberry pudding, one of the few sweet treats he actually enjoyed. 

Knowing Taeyong, he’d probably knock down the door in the next five minutes if there wasn’t an answer. Mark sighs, leaning his head against Yuta’s chest, “I should probably get that, for our and the door’s sake,” 

Yuta’s content laugh rings in Mark’s ears as he reluctantly leaves his warm hold and unscrews the latches of the door. Just like this, he had met the other man, no idea what blessings such a small cottage could give, and just like this, he would be open to so much more. 

He pulls the door back, snow covering the wood in a thick coat of white. 

Yuta waves from the couch, friendly smile  
painting his features. Taeyong screams.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and/or kudos are greatly appreciated <3 
> 
> you can find me [here!](https://mobile.twitter.com/jeanheir)  
> 


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